The Last Mile
by extrabitter
Summary: Roles are reversed as House and Wilson fight about the Vicodin, again. Things don't go well for either of them. Story in three parts. Rated T for violence and language. Completed.
1. Chapter 1

Note: Assume that this story take place in the present. The Op-Ed that I mention is real. "Handcuffs and Stethoscopes," by John Tierney, appeared in the New York Times in late July. There are three chapters and a short epilogue, it is finished, but I will be posting it over the course of a few days, because I can. Feedback always appreciated and thoughtfully considered. Although I'm fairly OTP about House and Wilson, and the story is very intense, it doesn't head into slashy territory until the end. You're probably OK reading this if you hate slash.

* * *

Friday afternoon and House was bored. Video games? Played out. Music? Too many choices. TV? Not enough choices, at least not good ones. Patient? Not that interesting, and he already knew what he was going to tell Foreman to do, when Foreman showed up.

House fell back on an old stand-by: the Op-Ed pages of the New York Times, now in convenient online format. He wouldn't have to get ink on his fingers. There was always some nutcase going on about something: the battle of the naysayers, the yes men, and Maureen Dowd. He absently wondered if the columnist might be one of Cuddy's mysterious friends.

" 'Handcuffs and Stethoscopes'? This could be promising!" House said to his empty office as he followed a link. He was certain that doctor porn didn't fall under All The News That's Fit to Print by any stretch of the imagination, but he might get a nugget that he could drop into conversation, and that was a good thing.

In reality, the column turned his mind to Wilson, and not in a pleasant way. House was still thinking about Wilson when he felt a rush of air from his office door. Brooding would have to wait.

"Have Mr. Vomit cultured for Candida, get a stool sample, and stop the Levaquin. I think we're looking at a severe fungal infection, not bacteria, or it could be fungal and a bacteria that doesn't react to Levaquin." He turned then and saw not the expected Foreman, but the very same Wilson he was trying not to think about. "Oh, thought you were Foreman."

"That happens more often than you'd think," Wilson said.

House grinned in spite of himself. Wilson wasn't smiling back. He stuck his hand in the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a small slip of paper. "It's that time again."

"You do take good care of me," House said. His voice was plain, and almost quiet.

"I try." Wilson made eye contact and breathed through the tension. The prescription shouldn't have been a problem, but it was. They were friends; they had always been friends. The pills made them more than friends.

There were days when it was too much.

House looked down as he dropped the paper into his pocket. "I'm worried about you."

Wilson looked at House with some suspicion. Either he was up to something, or. Or what? He was up to something. The pause stretched out too long as House stood up to gather his thoughts, and Wilson moved toward the door.

"Wait," House said. He tightened his fingers around the head of his cane to bolster his will to continue with this exercise. House had no trouble fitting words into sentences, but this was different. He wasn't used to worrying. "You… I don't know how to say this."

Wilson responded with a half chuckle. "That never stopped you before."

"Will you let me finish? The DEA is starting to crack down on doctors about pain killers," House said with less than his usual precision. He thumped his cane against the floor for emphasis.

"If you're going to be paranoid, leave me out of it," Wilson said, wary, condescending and more than a little tired of it all. "It's a stretch, but try watching your own back instead of making me do it for you."

"I'm talking about the Drug Enforcement Agency," House said, allowing no time for Wilson to say more. His voice was angry and impatient. "The Feds. They've got big guns and they take themselves very seriously. This is important stuff!"

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm an oncologist," Wilson shot back. "At any given time, half my patients are medicated for legitimate pain control. I know this may bruise your ego, but you're the least of my worries."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I don't have cancer," House said, trying to keep his voice even. "You've been supplying an admitted drug addict with schedule three narcotics for years! Scrip happy dentists and plastic surgeons won't keep these people busy forever."

Wilson shut his eyes and shook his head. "You meet the criteria for chronic pain, and you're convinced that Vicodin is the only way to treat it." Wilson no longer tried to hide his contempt for House, his pills, and his own role in the addiction. "What's your point?"

"One of these days, they'll be coming for you," House shouted. "I'm a red flag."

"You're in pain, Greg. You can't function without the pills." Wilson raised his voice. "You said so yourself."

"You could end up in prison because of me." House's tone was close to pleading, but he had no idea what he was pleading for, except Wilson's attention, which was not coming.

"I get it now. You're worried that if I go to prison, your supply will dry up." Wilson said. "Who's going to write for you then? Cuddy? You don't trust anybody else!" They circled each other like animals, with slow, watchful precision. Neither man was comfortable in his position.

"You don't get it at all," House stepped closer to Wilson, who stood fast.

"Then explain it to me." Wilson's eyes glittered with something House didn't attempt to read.

"Not until you answer my question." House's voice was worn from yelling, and his heart was tired.

"Fuck, what's the question? I didn't hear a question." Their toes nearly touched, their words came fast and thoughtless.

"Why do you write for me, Dr. Wilson? Why put yourself at risk?"

"I don't see it as a risk."

"Then you're not seeing." House whispered, finally noting their positions.

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson's eyes never left House's, but they were blind to each other now. "Why do you write for me?" House asked again.

"Because you let me," Wilson yelled at the top of his voice.

"Every time you take out that pad for me, you risk your reputation, you risk your medical license." He emphasized each word to make sure Wilson heard him. "You risk going to prison. You can't honestly think that 'Well, your honor, I wrote all those prescriptions because he let me' is going to hold up in Federal court."

Wilson recoiled as he realized that none of it mattered to House.

"You want to play it that way? Fine," Wilson said. "I'm your doctor. I'm going to continue to treat you until they find you dead in an alley."

Doctor. The word rang in House's ears like a gunshot. "You…" he trailed off in disbelief. "You are not my doctor."

"That's not what your chart says."

"You have a chart on me?" He never considered that Wilson would keep notes on him. For the first time in a long while, House had no idea what to say.

"I'm not like you. I keep records. Every ache, every pain, every pill is documented," Wilson said smoothly. Power rushed through his body, obscuring everything in its path. He lifted his chin slowly. Light from the window glinted in his eyes. Every bone and every muscle exalted in the glory of winning.

In that moment, House hated Wilson; hated him for winning, hated him even more for being right. A blanket of denial suffocated the last of his presence of mind. He lashed out with his free hand and pushed against Wilson's face, digging hard, scratching for blood.

Wilson grabbed at House's wrist and fought to twist the arm away. "Damn it, House! You're--Ow!" He bit into the skin between House's thumb and forefinger. House drew back, and Wilson looked at him, really seeing for the first time in minutes.

House was hell bent on revenge, his head adrift in bad waters: bitterness, anger, and the deepest kind of hurt. He released his cane and swung at Wilson with his right hand. His fist connected, crushing bone against bone. Wilson's head lurched from the shock of the blow.

They stared at each other uneasily, and breathed as if both of them had to remember how.

"I could hurt you," Wilson whispered, rubbing his cheek as he squared himself away, as if to confirm the impact. "I could break you." In an instinctive motion that proved the truth of his words, Wilson picked up House's cane from the floor and moved it under House's hand. His knuckles pressed into the flesh of House's palm, and House trembled.

He did not see Wilson leave the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Those last, sick moments rattled around House's gut as he settled himself into his car.

He couldn't stop looking at his hand on the steering wheel. He really had punched Wilson: skin and fatty tissue displacing; blood vessels spilling; tendons and muscles in the neck tensing, then giving. He remembered the hardness of bone, how it felt under his fist, and the rage in his blood. It all happened in the passing of seconds. That was a good, solid blow. House wanted to feel some pride in having thrown it, or guilt at having landed it, but he felt like an idiot for hitting the one person in the world who would never hit back.

At least not with fists.

He turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine loud enough to drown out the recriminations. Miles and miles of road led him to a dark spot near the river's edge. The water moved slowly, but it moved. Why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut for once in his life?

" 'I could break you,' " House quoted to himself. "I don't need your help, Doc."

House worked himself out of the car and nudged the ground with his cane. It was solid enough. He walked the bank for a while, not tracking the time. He looked up at the sky. The place was far enough from the city that he noticed stars and the winking moon. Thick, flat clouds lurked off to the west. They were coming in, not moving out. Something about the sky, the darkness over darkness, spoke to him of heartbreak and despair. He couldn't let himself hear that voice. Heartbreak was a needless luxury, and besides, it wasn't his voice.

He lost himself imagining the scenery under the darkness. Trees, water, sky, soil--a jumble of greens and blues gave him cover until his mind wandered back to the ordinary, and he thought he ought to get Wilson to come out here with him some time. If they ever spoke again… The rest was too much for House to consider. He walked back to the car and sat with the door open and his legs on the ground, wishing today had gone differently. If his deepest fear proved true, if all was said and done between them, he could do nothing to repair the damage. Cracks like the ones they'd shown each other went beyond today.

House knew how very badly he treated Wilson. He didn't give enough; he tried not to show that he cared at all, and when he could not help himself, he made a mess of the whole thing. His heart was a lousy metaphor: it just pumped blood.

His leg felt very heavy. It ached, which was good; for once he was happy to have the pain to keep him grounded. The sound House made as he locked his fingers behind his hamstring and dragged the leg inside the car masqueraded as part of the physical pain, but he recognized the howl-wail as mourning.

He felt like a liar as he pulled away from the river.

House was preoccupied as he drove, but he wasn't so far out of it that he failed to notice the gas gauge slipping too close to empty for comfort. He stopped at a service station. The bell clanged and he waited for the attendant.

"Fill it up," he barked at the college-aged kid who approached.

"You in some kind of a hurry, mister?"

House sighed. What was he going home to? Not much.

He reached into his pocket and took out the slip of paper Wilson had given him, seemed like a hundred years ago. He loved Wilson's signature, the funny, back-slanted letters that formed his name crawled along the bottom line like a bleary-eyed frat boy looking for a place to sleep off a hazing incident. Seeing the DEA number printed under Wilson's name reminded him why they fought. House wasn't sure how to feel at this point, or what to think.

He leaned his head against the steering wheel and wondered if there might be a way to keep the scrip, as a kind of souvenir. Souvenir, from the French verb meaning "remember." Pathetic. He had to fill it, anyway. What else could he do? The attendant was tapping on the hood to get his attention.

"Watch the paint job, idiot. This is a classic." House stated the obvious. No, he wasn't that far gone.

"I said $27.55."

House paid for his gas. He wanted to be angry with Wilson, anger would be a comfort, at least it would be something. Fifty miles from home, maybe sixty, what a long fucking day.

Wilson wanted to go to a bar to celebrate his victory. It seemed like the right kind of wrong thing to do, but he did not fully trust the invincibility. He didn't know how it worked, so instead he made his way to the place he and Julie lived. He pulled into his driveway after dark.

Home possessed a vaguely alien calm for Wilson; nothing ever happened there. As soon as he walked in the front door and saw every light in the house blazing, he knew Julie was home, too. The brightness made his head hurt and blunted his lingering buzz. Perhaps he should have gone someplace else, but he was here now, and he didn't want to deal with the repercussions of having both his wife and House angry with him for different sides of the same thing. The concept made him cranky.

He puffed up his cheeks and blew out as he climbed the stairs with heavy feet. Immature, certainly, but he didn't care. Julie was in their bedroom. She sat cross-legged on the bed surrounded by bits of brightly colored paper and piles of photographs. He had no idea what she was working on, but he knew he wasn't in any of those pictures.

"Are you home late or early?" she said without looking up from her pasting. Her posture said that she did not expect an answer from the man who was her husband. His suit was beginning to itch. He walked to the closet, hung up his jacket and stripped off his tie.

"There's chicken in the icebox, if you want," she said.

"Yeah, OK." He would have said the same if she told him there was a dead body in the back yard.

He walked across the hall to the bathroom to clean up. Julie's perfunctory questions followed him. "How was your day?" Wilson shut the door rather than respond.

He didn't want to think about House, or what had happened between them, so he thought about his wife. Julie was still pretty, but the attraction between them had long since cooled. She was nice enough, and people liked her. She had her crafts, which he could see all around the house even though he never bothered to ask her what they were. She had the same friends she'd had since college, she had clubs and a schedule full of activities; Julie had built herself a life with little connection to her husband. She had all these little, stupid things.

And he? He had a tender spot on his right cheek. A bruise would rise by morning. His neck hurt. What did it matter, really? What did any of it matter? It didn't, he told himself as he changed into comfortable clothes and walked away from his reflection.

His thumb pounded the channel button without mercy. He enjoyed the act of racing through, which helped him keep his mind blank. He cycled through the lineup twice before stopping on a program about a tornado. He laid back on the couch and set the remote on his chest as he watched buildings in one of those flat states disintegrate in the face of violent winds.

House's voice crept up on him, a familiar tone in a different timbre. I'm worried about you. Those were Wilson's words, not House's. Wilson had said them hundreds of times over the course of their friendship. He had said them so many time that he couldn't have responded to hearing House say them any other way. The fight was inevitable as soon as House upset the balance between them.

Wilson wanted to feel something like regret, but he stopped regretting long ago. He felt cold inside, restless, guilty. He hadn't listened to House; he hadn't even heard him. Wilson had simply let his own fury fly, without regard for what might be in its path.

What, or whom. None of it had mattered to him. None of it got in the way of his goal. Which was what, exactly?

He was the tornado.

He lay still and closed his eyes as two meteorologists discussed a tropical system off the coast of Florida. He couldn't resist drifting a little bit; back to the way he left House standing alone. Wilson played the whole scene in his head. It was screwed up, twisted all wrong, as if they'd been reading each other's lines from a script.

"Is that what it's like, to be you?" He whispered to a figment that looked exactly like House. "So focused that you'd rip me apart if I stayed one more second? Is that what it's like?"

He wasn't supposed to be the tornado. His throat clenched. He would do anything to fight off the tears. There might be a time to break down, but it wasn't now.

He prowled around downstairs for a while, banging his fist against light switches as he passed from room to room. It hurt. Finally he sat in front of his computer to settle down. He saw an e-mail from Cuddy: a link from the New York Times and a curt message: Read This.

Wilson froze as soon as he read the first paragraph.

The local forecast for the night called for rain.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time House got to the edge of town, clouds covered the sky. The weight in his leg overtook the rest of his body, as if his bones were made of a toxic metal that would eat away his flesh from inside, slowly, until nothing was left of him but skin and hair.

He stopped in front of his own building and cranked the parking brake into place. The grinding teeth of the gear contrasted with the soft splash of rain on the top of the car. House sat for a moment, feeling the stillness of it all.

Inside, he went straight for the bottles. Vicodin alone wouldn't dull him enough to get him to sleep. He had to sleep. His eyes burned and his head hurt.

He collapsed onto the couch with as much force as he could muster, not much, just enough to shake himself. In five years, he had become a really good cripple. He knew exactly what his body could take, and what it couldn't, even if nobody else did.

Wilson piloted himself toward House's apartment, his head full of words. So many words, most of them sounded like sorry. He was sorry, but he wasn't. Part of him knew that he couldn't have stopped the ill winds inside him from blowing, and the other part knew that deliberately hurting a person you loved was the most grievous of sins. He did love House; there was no denying it. He didn't know why, or even how, but he did know.

In his head, out of his mind, Wilson drove. The rain fell faster now, harder, refracting the streetlights through his windshield. It was beautiful, the light shining at the edges of each drop, rolling down, meeting each other. He absently turned.

He was going to make this right.

House sucked back the whiskey and let it scorch his throat. He let thoughts of the past push away thoughts of the present. The past was done; so was the present, but at least he knew he couldn't change the past. He saw the Wilson who had picked up the pieces of his life after Stacy walked out and put them back together, the man who pushed him back to living. He saw Wilson standing opposite him, today, never breaking contact as he shoved the cane back in his hand.

As if House could forget the cane; as if he could forget Wilson. How much whiskey would that take?

Something appeared in the harsh light from the front of Wilson's car. He felt his bumper scrape over it, and hit the brake, hard. The wheel bumped against the something, and it did not resist.

The thing was made of flesh. The thing had bones and muscles. He wrested himself from the dry comfort of the car, all the wood and leather money could buy, and flung himself down on the pavement.

A dog lay there, trapped underneath his car; its pale eyes fixed forward in death, just inches away. He looked at the dog with a doctor's fascination. It wore no collar. Rigor was setting its body into a grim twist. How long had the animal laid in the street, broken and bleeding, before death came to bestow infinite mercy?

He pressed his whole hand into the dark, glossy puddle until he touched the rough pavement. The blood was neither warm nor cold; it was slightly clotted, and it clung to his hand. Wilson studied the dog's face. Somebody must have loved him, once. Maybe even today, maybe every second of his life until a door opened, then closed, and he ran. Somebody must have loved him.

He turned his palm up and looked too long at the thick layer of blood. He felt oddly cold, for a summer night. His heart raced, and he felt light headed as he stood up. Shock, he realized. He was in shock. He began to hyperventilate.

He wiped his hand on his shirt, leaving a deep red streak across his shoulder. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. The sky spit rain again, and he had to get out of that place. There was only one way. He screwed his eyes tight as he started the engine and moved forward. The car made a horrifying thud as it rolled over the body and hit the road: once, twice in quick succession.

What had he done?

That sick sinking, his heart in the pit of his stomach, would it be the same if had he not known what his tires were crushing? He had no choice, and that was the saddest part of all.

Apparently the booze wasn't working, either. House stood up and pointed himself toward the bedroom; he stumbled a bit. So maybe it was working. The couch would be good enough. One stiff drink and a pill wasn't enough to knock him back for long, but the leading edge of the buzz hit him just right. That's what he needed, the hurt. Nights like this, the feeling of a dagger going in from point to hilt, cutting with both edges, that hurt was the only thing that kept him together.

Nights like this? Who was he kidding? The only thing that compared was when Stacy left, and he had seen that coming, even wished for it at the time.

He went back to the friend who left him, just hours earlier. Wilson, with eyes and lips set in cruel, parallel lines. House shut his eyes and saw the same man, Christmas last, smiling shyly as he draped his arms around House's neck and pressed their foreheads together.

"I'd better go," he had said, wistful and quiet. House thought about what he wanted to say, stay. Stay with me, and we'll deal with the rest later. But he didn't; he said nothing and watched Wilson put on his coat and pull the door behind him, so gently that it didn't latch.

House wondered when the crash would come. The mix of chemicals that held it at bay would wear off. He wanted to cry, just one stupid tear. Wilson and all those years were worth one stupid tear, but he had nothing left. The crash was coming, and he had nothing left. He welcomed sleep's dark call now, but in the morning, in the light when he came to….

Commotion at the door roused him, pounding, and frantic cries sounding out his name. Please, please! He knew that voice, as well as he knew his own. The door shook and shuddered, then nothing.

House stumbled toward the door, and opened. Wilson, soaked and desperate, said the word once more, and then he looked up. His face showed an elemental human need that House had seen before, but only in pictures of people he didn't know. This was Wilson. This was different.

House warred with himself for a split second, but no longer. Something was wrong, and no matter what else had happened, history dictated that if Wilson needed anything, that thing must be done. There could be no room for pride between them. He stepped aside.

House noted the blood on Wilson's shirt. "Are you hurt?" He reached out to touch the stain. He pulled back the collar and breathed a sigh of relief at his finding: smooth, unbroken skin. Clumsy, swaying without his cane, he worked at the buttons and pushed the shirt away from Wilson's wet shoulders. It fell in a heap on the floor.

Wilson looked at his hand, at the blood, stretched his arm out to show House the red under his fingernails, caked around his cuticles, etched into the lines of his palm. What House saw was the expression in Wilson's eyes, and he wished none of it were his fault.

"Come with me," he said softly. He led Wilson into the bathroom, hooked the cane over the edge of the sink and turned on the tap. The harsh sound of fast, hot water filled the room. Steam clouded the mirror. Wilson just looked down.

House pumped too much soap into his left hand and reached for Wilson's sullied right. Wilson was either unwilling or unable to help him, which did not matter to House. He slipped his other arm around and took Wilson's hand in both of his, working the soap deliberately into a thick lather.

He slid his fingers in between, to rub away the blood from whatever Wilson had been doing. He didn't need to know; all that mattered was the cleansing, everything else was behind them. Wilson inhaled, sharp and frightened, and leaned back into House's chest, as if he'd come out of the fog in his head.

House wished he knew what he was supposed to say, something reassuring, probably, but he wasn't at all sure himself, and he never seemed to manage faking it. "S'okay," House whispered tentatively. "I've got you." That had the benefit of being true.

The blood was gone now. House moved his hands over Wilson's wrist, without really thinking. Bubbles and fingers crept half way up Wilson's forearm as House moved in small fractions, up and down, up and down. The fluid motion lulled them both.

Wilson leaned his head against House's shoulder and a sound, half sob, half moan, came from somewhere deep within him. He reached back with his free hand to touch House's face; remembering, like a blind man.

House's fingers retraced their path through the soap one last time and guided Wilson's arm under the water. Three shining, pink hands, warm from the tap, came clean.

House went for a towel, but Wilson turned around. He leaned in and hid his face in the crook of House's neck. His wet hands soaked the back of House's t-shirt.

"I'm so sorry," he said. He cried quietly, for the dog he left dead in the road, for House, and for himself. He cried for all those suckers he couldn't save; he cried for the ones he could save, because they had to go on in this crazy world.

"Me too," House said once Wilson's tears subsided and they had a bit of space between them.

"What for?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "You were right. I read the thing in the Times, everything you said… I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing to say," House admitted. "And I'm sorry I hit you."

"I deserved it. I was…" Wilson searched his brain for a word to describe exactly what he'd been.

"You were like me," House finished. They looked at each other then, with clearer focus than they had had in months. House grabbed his cane and ran a hand over Wilson's damp hair.

House left Wilson standing in front of the sink, knowing he would take as long as he needed. Thunder answered lightning in the distance. Raindrops lingered on the windowpane. The storm was passing. House opened the window to let in the sounds and the scents of the soft, steady rain that remained. He always loved the rainy summer nights; they were a constant, no matter where he went.

He listened and breathed, remembering that he had something to remember, which was oddly comforting. He felt neutral, maybe even a little past neutral, it happened from time to time; most of all, he felt calm. He noticed the light from the bathroom reflected in the window as the door opened. Wilson stood there for moment, silhouetted. House's breath stuck in his chest. Wilson's feet were bare; that probably meant he was staying.

"Tired?" House asked him, turning around, although he could clearly see the answer.

"I'm burning my clothes in the morning," Wilson said after a second. He never took his eyes off House.

"Not the jeans," House insisted as he crossed back to the other side of the room. "You're unbelievably hot in those jeans. If I were a high school girl I'd put your picture up in my locker." House yawned a little, ruining the effect of his grin.

"You're tired, too," Wilson stated. He looked pointedly at the bed, then back at House.

The night would keep its own counsel.

Epilogue

At daybreak, House opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was his hand, clasped with Wilson's, palms facing and fingers entwined, resting on his pillow. The sight warmed him. He might have chided himself if he weren't so damned happy at that point.

They would probably still have to have a conversation, but he'd deal with that. At least he'd try. House wondered what would happen when Wilson opened his eyes, but for the moment, he watched Wilson sleeping, making note of Wilson's slightly parted lips and a dark spot on the pillowcase. Wilson drooled! House turned over this tidbit with glee as he sank back into sleep.

When House woke a second time, Wilson had pulled their hands to his side. He paused the light kisses along House's radial artery long enough to say good morning.

It wasn't supposed to be this easy, House thought. "You're here," he said.

"I'm home." Wilson's smile lit up his whole face, and maybe the entire state of New Jersey. House had to smile back. It was about time.

Maybe it was that easy.


End file.
